Home Another Way (7 page)
“I read your note,” Jack said as I came out of the bathroom. He still stood by the closet. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but I wanted to invite you to Jonah’s annual fall fun night. It’s tomorrow. There’s food and games for the kids.
Some dancing. Basically, it’s an excuse to get out of the house before everyone gets snowed in.”
“Before? There’s already a foot of snow out there,” I said.
“More like four inches. That’s just a dusting.”
“How much do you get here in a winter?”
“You don’t want to know. The festival is at the Grange hall, and starts at five. So, I’ll see you there?”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, a polite no.
He took the hint. “Well, I better get back to work. Do you need anything? I think your woodpile is low.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m heading into town this afternoon,” I said with a groan. “Do you think Maggie would mind if I used her phone? I need to make a few calls.”
“Mom’s not home. She and Beth took a trip into civilization and won’t be back until late. But the inn’s open. Just go in. Until tomorrow night, then.”
Wordlessly, I closed the door behind Jack, but not before feeling a gust of frigid air. I put on another pair of socks and thermal long johns under my clothes, my boots, coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. I stumbled out to the truck, started it, and waited back inside the cabin for another fifteen minutes until it warmed up.
At the variety store, I took a plastic shopping basket and inspected the meager produce section: iceberg lettuce, already limp and turning brown, onions, potatoes, knobby carrots, and seven varieties of apples. My intestines screamed for roughage, so I grabbed three heads of lettuce and the carrots, finding the prunes next. I added a loaf of bread, peanut butter, some pasta, cans of sauce, and Jell-O to the basket, and brought my booty to the man at the counter.
“Excuse me,” I said with a huge, friendly smile. “I’m staying at Luke Petersen’s cabin. Would you know what kind of fuel I need for the water heater there? Luke probably bought it here, and maybe you remember?”
“I remember,” he said, packing my groceries.
“Oh, great. That really makes my life a whole lot easier,”
I said, words coated with saccharine. “Um, you wouldn’t happen to remember how much I would need?”
“Yep,” he said.
I let out a deep breath. “Wonderful. I’ll take however much I need. I have an account here, under Graham.”
He scribbled on an invoice. “I know who you are.”
“Of course. One more thing. Could you explain how I put the fuel in?”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll come over and show you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I don’t want to be any trouble,” I told him, not meaning a single word.
“Luke would have done the same for me. Did do the same for me,” he said.
Please, don’t let this guy break into some Saint Luke monologue.
“Well, thank you, really. Are you Mr. Brooks?”
“Yep. Carl Brooks. You need anything else?” he asked.
“Actually, you wouldn’t sell firewood here, would you?”
“No, but I can get you some, have it delivered.”
“Perfect. Just put it on my account. Or, have the bill sent to Rich Portabella. He’ll take care of it,” I said, reaching out my hand for the receipt.
Carl tore the top sheet off his pad. “You know, you weren’t so nice to my wife when you came in here that other time.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. I didn’t want to take cold showers for the next six months, so I smiled tightly and said, “I am sorry. I was just having a bad day.”
“Well, if that were true, my wife would sure like to hear it.” Carl gave me the slip. “I’ll be there Saturday to help you with that water heater.”
Stuffing the paper in my coat pocket, I picked up my food with a pert nod and went out to the truck. I needed to call my lawyer to check on the status of the divorce, since I now had the means to settle any unpaid bill. At the inn, I dialed information, wrote down the number, then called Vincent Voykowski, Esq. I had picked him out of the yellow pages several months earlier because his ad boasted cheap, fast service.
“Vinny Voykowski. Speak to me,” he answered.
“This is Sarah Graham. I’m calling about my divorce.”
“Where you been, Sarah. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’m at a new number. Let me give it to you.”
“Not gonna need it,” he said. “You’re finished with me. The divorce is done. The husband, ex-husband, I mean, signed the papers last week.”
Vinny’s words wriggled their way into my ear and lodged against the back of my skull. Mouth dry, I managed to ask, “What do I owe you?”
“Two thousand.”
I gave him Rich’s address. “Send the bill there.”
“Sure thing. Hope I don’t hear from you again soon.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I murmured, hanging up. Standing at the desk, thoughts churning like sweaty socks in an off-balance washer, I picked up the phone again, and dialed quickly.
Maybe he wouldn’t be home.
Two rings, then, “Hello.”
“David,” I forced out.
“What do you want?”
“Just to see how you’re doing.”
“Give it up, Sarah. I signed the papers, so leave me alone.”
Click. Buzz.
Good-bye.
I found the Grange by driving around and around in the dark until I turned down a road lined with SUVs and pickups. A building at the end, windows long and orange, glowed like a four-eyed jack-o-lantern.
Pulling over, I sat in my truck, headlights off, engine idling. I couldn’t stay another moment in the cabin. David’s words continued to fester, no matter how loud I turned up the television to mask his voice that continued to roll around my head.
I had expected a flood of relief after the divorce, the bubbly tingle of freedom and a yearning to celebrate. Instead, cement filled the spaces between my ribs and I found it difficult to breathe. So, this was brokenheartedness, a phantom dial tone in my ear and not a single party hat in sight.
I didn’t know why I felt so miserable. I had never loved David, despite our to-have-and-to-hold promises in front of judge and family after three missed periods. And he didn’t—couldn’t—love me. The miscarriage, six years of failed monogamy, and a three-thousand-dollar retainer should have squelched any residual doubt. But here I was, fifty yards from a hoedown, wondering if I did the right thing.
Marriage, if nothing else, gave the illusion of love. And some deranged part of me wanted that fairy tale. I remembered reading the cards from my parents’ wedding. They were tucked in my grandmother’s attic, in a trunk with my mother’s baby clothes and training bra. The inscriptions, some written with large, looping letters, others in precise block print, varied on the same theme:
I’ve never seen two
people more in love
. What a joke. That love left my mother bleeding on the new carpet, shot twice in a jealous rage.
It was well past seven when I finally ventured inside the hall. Children’s artwork and felt banners proclaiming
Jesus
is Lord
and other religious niceties covered the water-stained plaster walls.
Tables of food wrapped around the room, cakes and brownies, ziti and other casseroles. The home cooking tempted me, but I’d had to lie on the floor to zip my jeans earlier, waistband cutting into my gut. Anyway, I didn’t know who prepared what, and looking at the unwashed clothes and grimy knuckles, I couldn’t be sure what might be baked into those pies.
I skirted the crowd. Music reverberated from a pair of battered speakers, some whiny country tune. People stepped this way and turned that way, touching their shoulders and shaking their hips. Looking for Jack or Maggie, or even Memory, I drifted into a corner at the front of the building.
“Sarah, I’m surprised to see you here,” a voice boomed behind me.
I turned and found Rich the Mushroom, balancing a heaping plateful of food on one hand, and holding onto a toddler with the other. The little girl hid her face against Rich’s thigh, and he wore a necktie, the thin back tail several inches longer than the front and stained with tomato sauce.
“Yeah, well, I do love the nightlife,” I said.
“Ha, ha. Honey,” he called, “come here and meet Sarah.”
A pudgy, gnomish woman ambled over, lugging an infant in a side sling. “Hi there, I’m Shelly Portabella.”
I shook her hand.
“This little princess is Penny,” Rich said. “She’s almost four. And that’s my son, Lane. He’s five months old.”
“He would have named them Yoko and John if I’d let him,” Shelly said, giggling and rubbing noses with her husband before kissing him moistly on the lips. “When I was pregnant with both these two, he put headphones on my belly and blared
Magical Mystery Tour
.”
Rich speared a meatball with his fork and took a bite. “Oh, you have to try these,” he said, waving the saucy blob in front of Shelly. She nibbled a little before her husband stuffed the rest in his mouth. “You want a bite, Sarah? I have a bunch here.”
“Uh, no. Have you seen Jack Watson?”
“Check the office. It’s over there.” Rich pointed.
I crossed to the opposite corner and shimmied between the piano and pulpit blocking a door marked pastor . Without knocking, I stepped into the dark room and swept my hand up the wall until I found the light switch.
The small study area smelled of old paper and aftershave. Unmatched bookcases flanked an antique desk and a computer. Words scrolled across the monitor:
His lord said unto him, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.”
I touched the Space bar and the screen saver disappeared, revealing an unfinished game of solitaire.
Two framed diplomas hung on the wall above the desk, both awarded to John Paul Watson: a Bachelor of Philosophy in Religious Ethics from Columbia University, summa cum laude, and a Master of Divinity from Manhattan Theological Seminary, magna cum laude.
So, not only was Jack a minister, he was disgustingly smart. That would explain all the books with titles longer than my arm. And how many Bibles did he need? KJV, NIV, NASB, HCSB, NLT—the acronyms continued across two shelves. Only alphabet soup strung more letters together.
Nestled in one corner of the desk were three photographs. The largest captured Maggie, tawny hair draped over one shoulder. She sat posed in front of a painted backdrop in a short, paisley dress, legs crossed self-consciously. A man stood behind her, his crooked smile nearly identical to Jack’s, his sideburns dark and stubborn.
In the second picture, a young boy waded knee-deep in a muddy river, hair twirling in the wind. He clutched a fishing rod in one hand and a squirming steelhead in the other. The photo paper was wrinkled behind the glass.
I picked up the third frame. Beth, probably fifteen or so, laughed candidly in front of a white country church, steeple pointing into the clear, perfect sky, her face clear and perfect. I wondered how she could now look in the mirror each day without screaming. I wondered if she looked in the mirror at all.
“Sarah? What are you doing in here?” Jack asked, coming through the door.
“I was looking for you,” I said. “And snooping.”
“Honesty. That’s refreshing,” he said, taking the frame from me. “Isn’t she beautiful?” His voice was wistful, broken.
“Is that your church?” I asked, trying to segue to a more pleasant topic.
“It was,” he said, setting the photo gingerly on the desk, “before it burned down.”
I winced.
Smooth, Sarah.
Still, curious, I asked, “Is that what happened to—”
“Yes.” Jack bit his lip. “Almost four years ago, Christmas Eve. Beth and her friend Danielle were in the basement with a few kindergarteners, getting on costumes for the annual pageant. We’re still not sure what happened, but the old church lit up like kindling. They were trapped downstairs.
“By some miracle, Beth survived. But no one else.” He swiped at his eyes, sniffled, now his turn to redirect the conversation. “So, what do you think? You like my place?”
“You don’t live here, do you?”
“Is it that awful? Admittedly, it’s a bachelor’s pad, but I’m not using empty pizza boxes for a coffee table, or anything like that. The pastor’s residence was attached to the church building. After the fire, Mom wanted me to move back into the inn, but people come looking for me at all sorts of crazy hours. I didn’t want her to deal with that. Anyway, we hold services here at the Grange now, so it’s convenient. Roll out of bed and onto the pulpit.”
“Do you even have a bed?”
“The couch pulls out,” Jack said. “Zip your coat. You can’t come to Jonah’s fall fun night without trying a traditional lumberjack delicacy. After that, you’re free to go.”
He led me from the room, hand pressed lightly against the small of my back. Heads turned toward us in unison, people elbowed each other and whispered behind their plastic punch cups. Jack seemed unfazed by the rubbernecking, stopping every few steps to chat and introduce me. I kept my eyes on the slush-streaked floor.
Outside, the rimy wind wove its fingers through my hair, stretching it into the night, a fiery tempest. I flicked up my hood and slumped deep into my parka. Children—gloveless, hatless, and rosy-cheeked—shouted playfully and threw snow at one another.
I followed Jack to a man standing at a gas grill, ice cream scoop in his hand. “How’d ya do, Reverend?” he asked.
“I’m wonderful tonight, Tom. And you’re doing well?”
“Can’t complain. Except Karen is in there dancing with that Reynolds boy. What ya think of that?”
“Charlie Reynolds is a good kid. So is Karen. I wouldn’t worry,” Jack said.
“That’s what the wife said. ’Course, I reminded her that her mama told her daddy the same thing, right before me and her ran off and got ourselves married.”
Jack laughed. “Tom, this is Sarah Graham.”
Tom touched the brim of his baseball cap. “Tom Hardy. Sure do miss your dad.”
My head twitched in acknowledgment. “Yeah.”
“Two, please,” Jack said.
“No problem,” Tom replied, scooping packed snow into paper cups. He put on an oven mitt and grabbed one of the metal tins from the grill, dumping some brown liquid onto the snow.
